


Princess, Queen, Empress

by Ozma



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 4.4 Spoilers, Ascian, Ascians (Final Fantasy XIV) - Freeform, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-23 20:06:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16166048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozma/pseuds/Ozma
Summary: Between 4.3 and 4.4; The auspices have not yet offered their reward and the Scions need immediate funding. The Warrior of Light takes it upon herself to return to Dun Scaith in hopes of finding artefacts that might be sold to line the Scions’ pockets, but instead encounters a rather unique individual.





	Princess, Queen, Empress

**Author's Note:**

> An attempt was made.
> 
> Thanks to Zahira for her support and enabling. Tags are intentionally vague.

‘Twas a whim, naught more.

There are duties and roles that are far more effective at procuring gil, yet curiosity whispers of Dun Scaith’s fate and you’re hard pressed to find fault in such fancies. 

At your feet rests an ancient city, untouched by time; inevitably, artefacts that might be sold to a collector or museum can be found in such a ruin – after ascertaining that they are no danger to the common populace with the Scions, of course.  Clear skies illuminate abandoned streets free from debris; Dun Scaith remains nigh flawless millennia after its creation, its roads unmarred, the colors vibrant on each individual path stone, lines of unfilled merchant stalls down every main branch of passage, and residential districts still eagerly awaiting their occupants.  Yet even under the sunlight, the land of shadows demonstrates its alien attributes, representative of cultural sensibilities long since lost to time.  Though there are no more ahrimen, eyes that are far more than decorative observe from every corner. Be they on signtops or in the depths of overgrown flora, the city itself oversees all visitors; its unwavering gaze follows your every step, yet withholds its judgement on your intrusion save that you are welcome – for now.

A haven, perhaps, but Dun Scaith was ne’er a normal city, no more than the Void Ark was designed to be a traditional ship.

If aught of worth remained in the main passage, you’d have found it during your last visit, so you must needs search the residences.  The land of the Mhachi is no place for a citizen of the modern eras, but innate hostility is no hindrance to adventuring so, choosing at random, you approach a bright building just off the main street.

Doused in the shadow of overlong eaves, the exteriors have weathered the test of time more successfully than the roadways, their color almost as true as the day they were painted.  The front door gives easily with but a light push, revealing what appears to be little more than a plain house, with none of the Mhachi cultural oddities you encountered in the Ark and main city; a modicum of light filters through low awnings and a slightly ajar side entrance by an unused kitchen, each footstep rousing specks of dust that dance through the air like snow, illuminated in faint gold before falling once again into still darkness and settling on dark, age-tarnished woods.

‘Tis a mercy that the houses have been spared from pirates or other looters; the voidsent are no worry, they care not unless ‘tis living. 

Dun Scaith remains as a perpetual dream, your every step disturbing its surreal, perfect order.

“So this is the individual to whom we owe our thanks.” From the shadows of the far doorway walks a man dressed far too formally to be adventuring in a city of ghosts; though the medals adorning his robe are evidence of previous military history, the regality of his trappings betrays his current role as civilian. “At last we meet.” With two long strides he closes the distance enough to reach out and touch you, bowing with practiced elegance.

“Who are you?” Strange as his presence is, the Garlean – a stray ray of light streaking through a half open blind at last reveals his identity - does not carry himself with intention to threaten, instead lounging an arm lazily on a bare counter.

“Someone with assuredly more renown than you.” 

 _Hmph_. He runs his mouth thoughtlessly; with such ego ‘tis a wonder he’s not gotten himself killed.

“It’s not safe here, there might be voidsent remaining.  You’d best return to your ship.” His _curiously absent_ ship; where has he hidden it?

“Voidsent, you say?” A low chuckle dismisses the potential threat as uninteresting, his attentions focused wholly on you.  With slow, directed intention, the Garlean paces about you, a constant dance of motion that manipulates the flow of light through the room, shadows growing and fading as he blocks window after window. “As I hear it told, the light warrior banished the shadowy queen in her garden sanctuary, claiming the crown for her own.” You turn to face him as he reaches your back; his is a play on words that is not quite metaphorical, but senseless and unpredictable all the same and you’d sooner not expose any vulnerabilities.  “What else might be your purpose here, save to pillage what little remains in your fair city?  There’s no shame in it.  Bask in the victory you’ve rightfully earned! That is their way – and _yours_.”

A strange tirade from an even stranger man and, more importantly, not full wrong.  He knows more than he should and, when it comes to the void, even a modicum of knowledge can be dangerous.

“I only did what was necessary.” Focusing on deceptively toned muscles under formal robes, you recognize an initial dire misjudgment; this is no helpless civilian researcher.  You must needs choose your words with care.

“Necessary.” A low chuckle stills his predatory circling; pleasant but far from friendly, laughter echoes through the depths of empty halls and into the streets. “Necessary! So ‘tis by _necessity_ that the last – or is it the first? - Mhachi Queen returns to reign over the corpse of her kingdom, confident that its occupants will bow before her.” A mocking smirk tugs his lower lip. “How unfortunate that I’m the one you’ve encountered instead.”

He’s mad.  What is there to even say to a madman’s rambles?  It might well be a mercy if the voidsent get to him. With a final dismissive nod, you push past the odd Garlean, having no intention of confirming or denying his dangerously explicit fantasies.

“What a bore.” An exaggerated sigh further shrouds his intentions.

“I’m not here for your amusement. If you’ll excuse me.”

“No, you’ll find you quite are.” Whispered and low enough that you’re unsure you heard him at all, the Garlean speaks as if he is a different person. Quickly turning back, the same slight smile plays at his lips as he leans against the doorway you entered from.  Even relaxed as he is, honed instincts whisper of impending danger. Without hesitation, you turn once more, leaving the house from its side exit with far more haste than is proper.  There was naught of worth inside, anyway. 

If possible, the complex alleyways remain more untouched than the residences; fully cloaked in shadow, the system of passages is akin to a hive of ants, seclusion sparing them not only the voidsents’ chaos but any destructive elements, the only imperfection being the thin coat of dust stirred at your wake. Instinctively your hands roam smooth, cool walls, a trail of lazy patterns growing with each step, a simple ephemeral mar in an unchanging city.

At last shadow gives rise to light, the twining paths opening into a roadway nigh as grand as the main passage.  A rapid glance up and down the lane reveals it to be still and colorful as all the rest, but a subtle, progressive shift in architecture is evidence this passage serves a different purpose than the others. Bright shades of paint fade to dark and at the road's end lies a building as extravagant as the palace the Void Queen once claimed for herself. 

If aught of worth remains in the city, surely it will be in there. 

Hand on your weapon, you tentatively take your first steps towards the imposing structure. No alarm sounds, no voidsent shriek, nay, contrarily, the city welcomes you.  Each footfall forward, a small glowing orb floats into the air at the roadside, marking your path and illuminating your passage with a deep purple; even millennia after its creators’ destruction, the city continues to fulfill its intended purpose.

An overlarge door looms at the building’s entrance, a not uncommon trait of Mhach architecture, judging by earlier encounters. Creaking open slowly, whiffs of warm, musty air flow past doors long-sealed as you’re granted you passage into utter darkness.  Weak rays of sunlight filter through the high glass of the windows, their muntins drawing strange repeated patterns up the staircase leading to the main floor.

The interior is as silent as death, roused only when you take you first step up the entrance's sharply angled stairwell. Small purple streaks originating at your foot flicker across the floor with each shift in weight, guiding you up a path that would be no easy journey for an average civilian.  When at last you reach the top, the lobby opens before you, a wave of glowing orbs starting at the entrance coming alive. Small balls of light float stationary on their designated posts, illuminating even the deepest corners of what is clearly a library. 

Library, mayhap, is an understatement.  In an extravagant display more of skill than might, statues large enough to be houses adorn a hollow center, surrounded by streams of decorative indigo aether. Flowing up and down in unison, they delve to the deepest Hells and rise to the highest of Heavens. Such is the terrible, awe-inspiring ability of the Mhachi, wielding enough power to destroy civilizations for simple ornamental spectacle.

And _what_ a spectacle; ‘tis doubtful that even the most extensive of Sharlayan houses of knowledge can match the volume of tomes visible from the entrance, discounting any found in the depths.  As captivating as ‘tis unthinkable, 'twould be easy to give into the temptation of temporary indulgence on ancient, lost knowledge, but if this building truly houses the wisdom of the Mhachi then you’d best proceed quickly so that you might find aught of value before the moon’s rise.

 _Aether, Architecture, Arithmetic_ \- mundane topics, all, the list remaining startingly normal as you browse a nearby directory.  Conspicuously, though not unexpectedly, absent is a section titled _Void_ ; the Mhachi dare not share their secrets so openly.  On the fifth floor, in small letters at the end of the section, you find what you’re looking for – _Restricted._ That will do; even if the tomes are encrypted, their value should be clear by title alone.

With a clear goal, you journey up the wide, spiral stairs circling the atrium, the lobby falling into slumber once more, awaiting the arrival of its next visitor. The steps dance at your touch, rousing to their role almost eagerly.  Designed more with pragmatism than art in mind, other than ornate twists in the handrail’s pickets, the staircase lacks the whimsicality of the rest of the city’s designs, favoring ease and simplicity, and for that you are thankful.

A simple numeral marks your arrival on the appropriate floor and once more you’re welcomed, the area lighting up in guidance. The constant, infinite rise and fall or aether pleasingly plays at your hair and clothes, the purple stream a suitably soothing distraction, akin to a fountain.  Of all the Mhachi’s strange architectural decisions, you cannot wholly find reason to condemn this one.

Through the labyrinthine shelves you travel, fingers absently roaming titles, both familiar and alien both.  Even more than Gubal, this library is testament to the volume of knowledge lost to time – or lost to Sharlayan and its hoarding policies.  Deeper and deeper you progress; the further you stray from the central balcony the fewer lights remain to guide you, until only a simple glow marking the ends of the shelves remains.  At last, with naught more than a simple hovering orb marking the wood nameplate above the door, you reach your destination.

For all Mhach’s grandeur, the entrance to the restricted section is but a plain door, without even the simplest ward to fend off intrusion.  Truly, the citizenry was not expecting invasion nor Calamity, that they would leave some of their more valuable tomes so easily accessible.  No matter; a soft push is all it takes, no more of the light orbs following you into this forbidden place, but ‘tis immediately clear you’ve no need for them.  Blinking rapidly at the bright candlelight flooding the central section of the room, your watery eyes can only just make out the blurred silhouette of a tall man leaning back in his chair, boots raised onto the oversized table, so deeply lost in the ancient writings that he does not heed your arrival.

The Garlean.  Your heart races, setting instincts ablaze; _is he following you?_   Nay, he would not have arrived before you if he was. The rationale does little to soothe growing anxieties, for the moment you take a step back he looks up and meets your eyes, placing his tome down without bothering to mark his page and summoning you with a bored wave.

Lest you appear just as suspicious to him as he does to you, you approach with a disarming smile. He's more like to reveal his intent to a friend than a foe.

Can a Garlean even read such texts?  Any Mhachi tomes containing culturally and politically sensitive information will be magically obscured; how tightly the Mhachi conceal their secrets is a key element in why they remain so mysterious, even millennia after their fall. Have Garlemald’s scientists discovered a way to dispel such enchantments? 

“What interest does a Garlean have in this place?” You keep your distance, but step into candlelight’s glow, its faint waver streaking the stranger’s bangs molten silver.

So dismissive and hasty is his answer that 'tis difficult to believe he speaks aught but the truth. “It is said the Mhachi had tools to control the denizens of darkness.”

Flutters of warm laughter escape your lips.  Disrupting the library’s stillness, amused breaths send the candlelight flickering.  Such is the grandest of ironies; the Garleans do not know the truth of which they seek.  You would have it remain as such. “Transformed into beasts and then repeatedly controlled – truly, they are a cursed people."

Lowering his foot to the floor, the stranger stares intently at you, in his eyes a darkness with such fleeting presence that you’re uncertain if ‘tis simply a vivid imagination conjuring paranoid fancies.

“What do you know of these. . .curses?” The illusion shattered, he leans his elbow on the table, resting his cheek on his fist. His growing smile hints at mockery, as does the way his piercing gaze lays your vulnerabilities bare, but the lazy tone implies genuine curiosity; his unknowability catches your breath any prepared words fumble from your grasp and slip from your tongue.

"You needn’t worry, the tools responsible for such destruction have yet to sow their curses on this star." Elaborating too much and too little, your poor excuse for an evasion only draws out displeased hums, the intensity of his unwavering stare urging you to continue. You’ll do no such thing; the Allagan’s mistakes are best left only in the past and Garlemald is yet to learn the necessary temperance.

Though you firmly make it know you’ve no intention of elaborating, the Garlean does not reveal the expected displeasure. Nay, contrarily, he _smiles_ , lips clearly tilted up even as he leans back in his chair, away from the candlelight.  “Such fascinating antics you and yours engage in.” Tome all but forgotten on the table, he makes exaggerated show of pushing his thighs to rise from his seat.  “Would that we could discuss it at length at a later time.”

“I doubt we’ll have that opportunity.”

Swerving past you, the stranger leaves the room nigh untouched save the dying candle.  If not for the faintest chuckle at his passage, you’d swear him a ghost.

The door’s faint click at your back promises safety yet still you hesitate, listening as best you can into the darkness for any traces of intrusion.  Other than your low breaths, only silence meets you; between disappointed and relieved you settle, at last approaching the Mhachi tome that so intently held the Garlean’s interest.  Leaning into the light, a quick glance through the parchment reveals only strangely shifting shapes and lines that look likes they should form letters, only to collapse and reform the instant you’ve a grasp on them. Even the title and binding are heavily obscured, giving no hints to the contents.   The stranger seems to carry no pack of tools around, 'tis a mystery how he deciphers such encryption unaided.

If such powerful enchantments were placed on it, whatever knowledge the tome contains must be of value.  This will do; sliding it gently into your pack, you douse the candle and leave the dark restricted chamber behind. 

Such is the conclusion to your pleasantly uneventful trip. As it did upon your entry, the library rouses at your presence, allowing easy passage through the twisting balconies and stairwells into the lobby.  Empty, all empty – now that the Garlean has left, ‘tis truly a city of the dead.

The expected blinding sunlight does not greet your exit into the streets, instead the faintest traces of red stain an otherwise star-filled sky.  Surely you did not spend so much time in the library as that, a bell at most; your earlier cautious roaming must have stolen away more daylight than you realized. Though the glowing orbs continue to light your path, they’re aided by the larger streetlamps; the strange décor blatantly follows your every movement until you move from their range, slowly blinking eyes judging from their tops.  If they did not approve, would they trigger some alarm?  After encountering the mighty remnants of Mhachi civilization in the Weeping City, you’d sooner not meet Dun Scaith’s original guardians.

For all the light guides your passage, it extends no further than the main road. Countless alleyways and roads remain shrouded in the deepest shadows. ‘Tis not unexpected, but no matter how far your gaze roams, no lights are to be found in the residences, no trace of aught save your presence. 

A lonely night’s breeze wails through the city, its chill touch drawing your gaze for an instant to the starlit moonless sky and back down to continue your–

Steady paces still, a faint gasp filling the newfound silence.  To your right, on the third level of the residence is a lone window, a tattered curtain dancing upon the faint breeze visible only through the presence of a pale, unwavering glow.

_Impossible._

Repeated blinks do little to clear your vision, the light remaining after it should otherwise have faded.

A choice that is barely a decision at all is made before even acknowledging potential alternatives.  At worst, the anomaly is a weak spectre or lone voidsent; at best, ‘tis an artefact of more solid value than a simple encrypted book that might well hold culinary recipes for all you know of its contents.

Glass-lined double doors wide enough to fit four Roegadyn shoulder to shoulder open easily, revealing a building unlike the others you’ve roamed.  Stirring at the presence of movement, small illuminating globes rouse to life at even intervals down the long, nigh featureless hall. Faded wallpaper once adorned with flowery designs line the walls; not so untouched by time – or preserved by magicks - as the private quarters or library, stray lines of paint peel from the walls, revealing patches of pale stone underneath.

The doors do not budge, no light peeking from between the cracks; locked tightly and immune to time’s intrusion, these rooms will ne’er welcome the living.

Near the center of the hall you reach your destination.  Absent stairs entirely, a wide platform glows; you know these teleporters well enough, it will take you where you wish to go.  Two simple swipes on the glowing pad change the destination floor to a large, clear “3” and you step inside. Mhach’s sweeping teleportation is not entirely unlike your own or the Allagan’s, yet in their mastery of void magicks they discovered some way to retain full consciousness during the transfer of flesh and soul, somehow dulling the senses and building a protective wall of unnatural detachment from your swirling surroundings.

All this knowledge lost with Calamity, not only void studies, but magicks capable of improving Eorzea’s quality of life.  Such, too, was the fate of Allag - of astral and umbral’s vicious cycle.

The device deposits you into darkness quite unlike the lower hall. A large open chamber filled with tables and perfectly aligned chairs lies before you; empty planters, their occupants long since absent of life – or mayhap they’d had no chance for one - and a dried, shallow pool for adornment circle the dark chamber. Absent the wall lanterns on the ground floor, faint path lights etched into the stone at your feet guide are your only guide.

Only a quick glance is necessary; exactly where you’d expect it to be, on a small table in the corner, half hidden by a protruding partition, is the glow.  A light otherwise absent, it attracts you as a vilekin to a flickering lantern. Subduing growing eagerness, your command anticipatory steps into steady caution, weapon ready at a moment’s notice. As you draw nearer, the soft glow grows more demanding and its identity becomes clear: an orb, transparent and unadorned, sits on a simple black pedestal giving off faint pulses of aether akin to a strongly aspected crystal, but far greater. If such vast energy is present without external manipulation, the orb can only be a power source of some kind; ‘tis a treasure unlike aught you’ve encountered in Mhachi ruins, save, mayhap, the rare void fragments.

Such artefacts can be dangerous, but are inevitably valuable.  This is the treasure of Dun Scaith you’ve been seeking; goal in sight, anticipation at last overcomes caution and you quickly close the remaining distance.

\- But not quickly enough; from behind the partition he swoops, with a fluid elegance akin to liquid shadow, snatching the orb from its pedestal and drawing it firmly into his grasp.

The Garlean. The Garlean has taken your treasure – nay, he _lures_ you with it.

Jaw clenching, irritation permits naught but barely coherent, sputtering condemnations. “You're following me!”

His only reply is that same infuriating smirk he has given you at every meeting. 

You’ll have no more of his games; drawing your weapon, you once more demand an explanation for his behavior. “What are you doing here?”

Low, amused laughter is his answer; the stranger spreads his arms wide, orb in his palm, as if to demonstrate his defenselessness. You’d sooner trust an unbound voidsent; too much is wrong about this – about _him_.

Slowly, deliberately ascertaining that you see every move he makes, the Garlean lifts his hand forward, holding the strange orb out in offering, rolling it between his fingers as if ‘tis some toy, teasing you - daring you to claim it from him.   

Stillness and silence; what should be comforting instead smothers. He has no intention of speaking and you’ve no intention of leaving without the treasure.   You’ll make no progress just standing about; sheathing your weapon, you step toward the stranger. If he offers it as apology, you are not wont to decline.

Having no intention of allowing him the opportunity to change his mind, your hand darts out toward the treasure. Fully expecting to reach it with ease, you blink rapidly when your fingers instead grasp empty air; blurred by unnatural speed, the stranger draws his arm back, the orb just outside your reach.

“W-what?” The glow reveals the Garlean’s unreadably straight features as he feigns innocence.  Meeting your eyes, the façade cracks with a soft chuckle and he offers the orb once more. 

You’ll not be made fool of a second time. With practiced speed you lean, darting in with your full weight –

. . .Only to have the stranger twist once more in evasion. Target far from its intended position, your weight shifts; with a flailing stumble, the world spins about you. In an instant that seems to be a bell, every juvenile, inexperienced mistake etches itself into your mind; your hips twist more quickly than your ankles, your weight too far upon your toes to rebalance under the rapid motion.  Time speeds up and you comprehend it all in the sole, regretful instant you reel forward into strong, unflinching arms and a toned chest that you can feel nigh every inch of through tightly clinging finery.

Bearing your weight easily, his arms encircle you, pulling you up so that you might regain your composure. Trapped in the warmth of his robes, you look away, refusing to meet his eyes, knowing full well the heat that has spread over your features.

"Who would have thought Lahabrea's bane would be such a petulant princess?" Amused chuckles rumble his chest, revealed more by proximity than sound, but not even the informality of his words or the heat of your emotions can still the cold shock that courses your flesh.  Head near your cheek, his age-whitened bangs fall into your line of vision, forbidding you focus your attention on aught but him. Low and breathy he whispers, his bored mask peeled away.   “I should have expected no less.   Sorry little Queen, you’re not yet ready to be Empress.” 

That language.  _He’s_ -

Stumbling from his grasp, you immediately draw your weapon, sliding your sack from your shoulder to rebalance. Unintimidated by the show of force, the stranger meets approaching threat with only a bored shrug.  He makes no move to return the hostility in kind, instead choosing to once more lift the orb between you.  With a clenched jaw, you brace yourself for an unfamiliar attack. . .

. . .that ne’er comes, the orb falling from his fingers and clinking gently into your sack as he walks past.

_What -_

 “. . .But mayhap you will be when we next meet.” The Garlean – _Ascian_ – strolls into the darkness at your back with a final dismissive wave over his shoulder.

 _Princess, Queen, Empress_ – absurd affectionate nicknames from an even more absurd individual - one you’re quite confident you’ve not yet seen the last of.


End file.
